Incredible Acts of Chutzpah & Kindness N°5

Today was Yom haShoah. Holocaust Remembrance Day. On this day, we pay hommage to those massacred and slaughtered by the horrors of the Nazi regime.

Jews, Gypsies, religious minorities, political dissidents, homosexuals all perished in concentration camps, with one name in particular that comes to mind: Auschwitz. Men, women, the elderly, children never came back, or escaped and exited as living skeletons. We will never be sure how many, but whole families were wiped out, exterminated. 6 million Jews. 11 million people in total.

Never forget.

Never Again.

Incredible Acts of Chutzpah & Kindness N°4

Incredible Acts of Chutzpah & Kindness N°4

JUSTICE FOR THE WORD "GOY" גוי‎

The word goy in Biblical Hebrew originally meant "nations". In the Torah it appears more than 550 times to refer to Israelites AS WELL AS "other nations", or rather, other peoples.

The question of what makes-up a "goy" may now be approched. According to rabbinical/talmudic writings, the "goyim" are constituted of a group of people numbering at least 70 and speaking a distinct dialect. (I learned this on wikipedia).

Now where is the controversy relative to this word? In English, Hebrew and well as Yiddish, the word goy has become synonym with "non-jew". Not only in order to distinguish a barrier between Yiddishkeit and goyischer customs and traditions that would lead us down a non-Jewish path, away from yidden and Yiddishkeit: but also to demean, to judge, and to show an enormement amount of free-hatred towards goyim.

If we study a little the part in shacharit where we say: shelo asani goy (Thanks to G.d who did not make me a goy), we cannot presume that this prayer instituted by the great Rabbanoim

automatically means: Thank you G.d for not making me a goy because goys are necessarily "bad". For example, in the Italkite tradition

(nusach Italkite) the prayer goes from "Shelo asani goy" to "shel asani-Yisrael".

Be happy to be a Jew, a yid. Be proud of it, but be thankful for having recieved the Torah, which carries us! But don't rub any free-hatred

in the faces of someone because they're simply different

Incredible Acts of Chutzpah & Kindness N°3

Bicycle riding in any city can be dangerous. All the more, perhaps in Grenoble. In Grenoble, there are bicycle paths, sure, but most of them disappear a few meters down the road, leading me to ask myself if the City Hall just didn't buy enough green paint.

When I did have my bicycle, I was a demon on wheels! I would speed through the city, rain and snow, dodge cars, baby-carriages. Sometimes I would have my daughters strapped on behind me, with all the safety-gear imaginable. I would carry my groceries in the tiny basket in front of me, or going to my Beaux-Arts classes, I would have my big bulky black artists' bag and all my supplies strapped onto the thingamajig on the back, and I would speed from one end of the city. I had wings of steal and rubber!

Eventually, however, riding a bicycle comes with great risks. The greatest being the cops. They are everywhere, "Big Brother" is real (oops, I think I'm getting carried away.). However, I have realized why the Frenchies really do rebel against the cops: They're a pain in the tukhes תּחת. Never have I seen public servants so haughty and naughty.

One fine day, with the sun shining warmly on my back as I sped as fast as possible throughout the Arab quarter (Saint-Bruno), I ran a red light. Yes kids, I actually broke the law. When the police started yelling (no, they did not turn on the lights or do anything, they basically tried running me over, and yelled "Madamoiselle! Madamoiselle!"). I asked them politely what was their problem.

"That was a red light back there," they said.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm color blind. You see why I don't have my driver's license, now?", and I sped away as fast as I could.

For anyone who has ever driven in Grenoble, those people know about the situation of certain streets. The most shameful being street that takes me to the kosher butcher. Once again, speeding on the bicycle, going to Mr. Cohen's butchery to get myself a chicken in time for shabbos when the shop closes at 13h00, I got sick of speeding slowly on this big avenue and harming myself with these giant pot-holes, and cruised over to the over-sized sidewalk in front of Lycée Champollion.

Once again the traffic police were there. Nicer this time. Probably because this is not the Arab district.

"Madamoiselle! Madamoiselle! C'est interdite d'aller sur le troittoir!!'

Damnations! I said to myself and mildly pissed off that if I stopped to reason with them, I would miss out on that kosher chicken for shabbos.

"I'm so sorry, but I don't speak French!" I shouted back and pedalled as fast as I could, faster than when I was a teenager, without a doubt!

Since then, many things have stayed the same. The Arab quarter still gives me the freaks when I go by. The smell of the unhealthy mystery-kebab is still there. My bicycle eventually lost its' breaks, its headlights were stolen. For a while I used my feet to slow myself down.

Eventually, I took the train one early morning to go to Bordeaux. I parked and locked up my bike outside the train station, thinking that it could never get stolen there with all the military people who would roam around there with automatic machine guns thanks to Al-Quaïda & C°.

well...yes, you guessed it. The hippies probably stole it. Goodbye Daisy. Fare-the-well.

Incredible Acts of Chutzpah & Kindness N°2

The Post-Office

As some people may know, the post-office in France is often a target of worker's strikes, prompted by unions such as the CGT (the most notorious with their curious Red flag: remind you of anything?), and the other various unions that exist in France.

Last year during the fight led by the right-wing government led by Nicolas Sarkozy, to privatize the post-office, the post office was again, in strike.

However on this particular day, seeing that the door of the post-office was open, and despite the sign talking about the social actions taking place inside the yellow and blue post-office, filled with unsmiling civil servants, I approached the service counter.

"Qu'est-ce que je puisse faire pour vous?" ("How can I help you?"), the unhappy bourgeois looking maghrebine girl asked me.

"I want a stamp, please," I responded with all due respect.

"I can't help you with that," she quickly retorted, unless you go to the automatic machine.

"But I want a pretty stamp! This letter is for my Grandmother who lives far far away!" I almost yelled back, desperate for someone to just let me pay about 0.80€ to get a stamp that looked pretty.

"I'm sorry I'm on strike. There's no one here to sell you a stamp."

I stand there for about a mini-second just for good effect, noticing how she really didn't SOUND sorry enough for me.

"Well, I see that you're there! And what about those three colleagues behind you with obviously nothing to do?! There ARE people here!" I shouted. (Now I WAS really shouting!).

"We are in strike, we can't help you. Like I already said."

"Ben dis-donc!" I said and turned around and walked out of that post office.

I had to wait another day to get a pretty stamp (jolie timbre) for my Grandmother's birthday card.

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After this incident, I learned that while on strike, in order to not loose a day's pay, people just stick around at work.

Now how's THAT for going on strike!!

Incredible Acts of Chutzpah & Kindness N°1

Abraham Joshua Heschel (January 11, 1907 – December 23, 1972) with Martin Luther King, Jr. (January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)

Justice for the word CHUTZPAH

The definition of chutzpah is not easy to define between Israelis with their own חֻצְפָּה compared to Yiddishists

My goal as a human humanitarian is to change forever the definition of CHUTZPAH חוצפּה, and give it back the meaning that was given to it by Leo Rosten in The Joys of Yiddish. "gall, brazen nerve, effrontery, incredible 'guts,' presumption plus arrogance such as no other word and no other language can do justice to."